Hide and Seek
by Pinned back Wings
Summary: Laurel followed Sherlock around in college, always going out of her way to be around him; she found him just as interesting as he found her. When he graduated, he didn't keep in touch; however, when she graduated she started a large game of hide and seek. But now, Laurel figured, was the time for their game to end. Eventual Sherlock/OC with John/Mary? Rating is subject to change.
1. 1

**Hide and Seek**

**Author's Note**: This is my first publication for the _Sherlock_ category, not attempt mind you - I've tried multiple times to write a story for _Sherlock_, but it has never worked out. I hope it's different for this publication because I adore this story line that I've created over weeks and weeks. Please! Enjoy.

* * *

1. Red Poppies

* * *

Whenever John Watson went to the market, he always ended up forgetting something. Last week was the sugar, and the week before that was the packaged biscuits he had taken a liking to; however, this week (to his astonishment,) was the one week he did not forget a single thing on his list. He had gotten the milk, the eggs, the sugar, the biscuits, bread, and even some jam. Walking up the steps of 221B were never really an issue, even with the four paper bags being balanced in his hands. He used his foot to open the door, still balancing the bags, and managed to wedge the door open.

Once through the small opening, he kicked the door back into it's original position before pacing towards the kitchen. It was unusually quiet today, no sounds of gun shots, or violin - just the noise coming in through the open window.

"Sherlock?" John voiced down the hallway, looking at the closed door of his flatmate's room, and when he didn't hear a reply thought nothing of it. More often than not, Sherlock was in his "mind palace" as he liked calling it, or had heard him and never bothered to answer back; half the time Sherlock never even noticed that John had left at all! Grunting, John placed the bags down on the table and sorted out everything (carefully especially around all of Sherlock's "experiments".) John made his way out to the sitting room, his newspaper and his chair calling to him. Before John could even open his paper, out of his peripheral vision he saw Sherlock laying on the sofa in his signature pose; eyes closed, finger tips touching his lips in a prayer manner (if Sherlock was religious, John would've described it like that,) and his body stretched out along the length of the sofa. _Deep thought_, John remarked and as he went to open his newspaper saw a postcard, or some kind of letter, sitting on top of Sherlock's chest which was steadily rising and falling.

Now, John was never a nosy person by trade, but who on earth would send Sherlock - his arrogant, self-invovled flatmate - a letter? Curiosity got the best of him. He folded the paper down, laid it on the end table, and carefully stepped over to where Sherlock lay. _Would he wake up? Certainly not. I've yelled at him before when he was in his "mind palace" and there wasn't so much as a flinch_. John felt the palms of his hands begin to clam up, and he quickly picked up the piece of paper off of Sherlock's chest, flipped it over, and looked at the picture on the front. _So it is a postcard._

A young girl, she couldn't even be in her thirties yet, stood in front of what tourists called Big Ben, both of her hands held up in peace signs and her pink tongue darted between her lips. A backwards hat was situated on her head, honey-brown curls sticking out from underneath and the rest in a messy ponytail (or what looked like it?) and what John could see as green eyes staring back at him.

He flipped it over again, his eyes scanning over the cursive on the back.

_Still couldn't find me… I'm disappointed Sherlock, hopefully you remember that field of poppies. I'll be waiting ~Laurel (or do you remember me as Duckie?)_

"John," John nearly jumped out of his own skin at Sherlock's sharp voice, and he almost looked at Sherlock with a meek look that read 'you caught me'. Sherlock had his hand out, palm up and open, and John promptly put the postcard back in his clutches. Gingerly, Sherlock took it back and opened his eyes, sat up, and flipped it over to look at the picture, "poppies huh?" He mumbled under his breath before ruffling his dark curls and groaning, an almost hissing noise before flopping back, "she really expects me to remember a field of insignificant poppies?" His voice much louder this time.

John hopped back and forth from his right foot to his left foot before asking what had been on his mind: "Who is she?"

"An… acquaintance, and I use the term loosely." John's eyebrows rose and the lines on his forehead showed, "you'll get premature wrinkles if you keep that up John." John didn't even bat an eyelash at the retort, instead laughed (admittedly, probably a little louder than was appropriate.)

"A female acquaintance? An acquaintance at all!"

"I knew her in college, and she has a habit of reappearing when least expected, or wanted. Both. Yes, both." Sherlock brought his fingers up to his lips once again, but didn't close his eyes.

"What did she mean "couldn't find me"?" John questioned, more curious now finding a common link between his flatmate and the girl, "you've been looking for her?"

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before reopening them, "of course not. She likes playing games, and one of her favorite games has always been hide and seek. This is a … pass time between the two of us, something interesting unlike a letter describing every detail of her abroad experience, and over used sentimentalities such as how much she missies me, or how much she wants to see me. This … this keeps me from getting too bored."

"So … it's a giant game of hide and seek?"

"To put it simply. She goes to a country, sends me a postcard, and I try to find her. It's been two years since the last one."

"So, it's been out of the blue?"

"Quite. A field of poppies… where would poppies grow? For market? Personal? There are so many things that could…" Sherlock hopped up from the sofa, his eyes almost bright, "Yes! Oh, very clever Duckie, but almost too obvious, could she want to give up already?" A victorious smile spread over his features before he turned towards John, which had a very confused look on his face, "the wrinkles John." Immediately, John relaxed his face and gave Sherlock an almost bored look. Sherlock rushed around the coffee table, grabbing his coat and slipped it on, grabbed his scarf, and looked as if he was contemplating something.

"Sherlock? You going somewhere?"

Turning, he wrapped the scarf around his neck and faked a wide smile, "Yes, fancy a car ride to Suffolk John?"

* * *

"I can't believe you're back! And staying no less?" A man in his early thirties wrapped his arms around Laurel's shoulders, bringing her close to him and she patted his back almost sympathetically, "hopefully for good?"

"Until I get bored again, and it happens often enough." She said quietly, smiling up at her brother as he pat her head and ruffled her honey curls. She pouted, patting her hair back down before kicking his shin playfully, "how's the ye olden estate?" She joked, looking up at the victorian pillars that stood at the entryway of the vanilla house; her eyes darted between the windows and finally on her brother's worried gaze, "everything still in order?" Her voice was strained and hoarse as she asked the latter question.

"Everything is still in it's place, just how they left it. Just how you left it," Colum scratched the back of his head before looking up at the morning lit sky, "you didn't have to force yourself back here you know? I know there are a lot of memories -"

"So do you, but you found a way to handle it, didn't you? Besides, I can't spend all of my money traveling."

"And having Sherlock chase after you."

She shrugged, playfully smiling before grasping her backpack tighter, "it was fun for a while, dangerous too. Almost got caught a few times."

"You know the last two years when you were -"

"In the past," she waved off both metaphorically and physically, "I really don't want to talk about it."

"But -"

"Seriously Colum, just don't." Her voice was cold, no longer honey covered, and Colum shivered at it, "let's see my old room shall we?" The happy tone back in her voice, and the small smile placed on her lips.

"Still looks the same, a little more dusty than when I was last here." Sliding her finger over the mantle above her toy trove, she gathered the dust that settled there and rubbed it between her fingers. She smiled sadly as she looked around at her childhood room, the pink and lavender bedsheets still made up nicely and the twinkle lights still strung up along the wall. Her stuffed animals littered the book shelves that her father built into the wall, and the pile upon piles of books in the right corner of the room, "smells different though."

"That's what usually happens when someone doesn't use it for over ten years." Colum joked, rubbing his forearm as he leaned against the door frame, "but everything is still here." Laurel kicked off her shoes, and shimmied out of her tight teeshirt, pulled out a baggy shirt with the words _The Offspring_ sprawled across it in red letters and pulled it over her head. She pulled her hair in a messy bun before turning around, "well I better get to work if I want to sleep in here tonight, huh?" Her brother smiled, an almost grimace before nodding his head.

"I'll let you get to it."

"Wait, what makes you think you're not helping?"

"I have tests to grade Dap-"

"Laurel please, I hate my first name. In America everyone kept asking if I was named after the Scooby-Doo character." Colum laughed, and coughed suddenly when he saw his sister's glare. He looked around awkwardly, or what seemed to be, and sighed before walking over to her bay window and opening them. Laurel smiled to herself, knowing she had gotten her way.

"I'm only helping for a few hours! Then I really need to grade papers." Laurel smiled, nodded, and stripped her bed, taking the sheets down to the wash.

The sun hung high in the sky, the rays beating down Laurel's back as she hung up the sheets on the clothing line. A breeze blew in from the east and with it, the smell of salt water and the sound of sea birds. Even in all her travels Laurel had always missed this; the little things that she could enjoy, like hanging up the laundry to dry or the feeling of the grass and dirt between her toes.

"Laurel!"

She ignored him. She closed her eyes, hugging the basket to her abdomen, and took in the smell, even the touch of the wind against her face. She missed in. In all her adventures, negative and positive, she absolutely missed being back home. It was lonely now - it was missing the sounds of her mother running around to get her lecture together, and even the sounds of her father's laughter (on the rare occasions that he _did_ laugh,) - even the neighbors were quiet.

"Laurel!" Colum called again, but this time she turned around and looked at him with an unreadable expression, "uh, I'm going into town to get something for dinner - any suggestions?"

"Anything sweet please." Nodding his head, he left. She set the basket down, clipping the sheets to the line before stepping away from it. Mumbling under her breath, "I wonder if he'll come this time." Her eyes softened as she looked at the field behind her house, weeds and dead flowers grew; however, red poppies lay there, blowing softly in the coming breeze.


	2. 2

**Hide and Seek**

**Author's Note**: This is my first publication for the _Sherlock_ category, not attempt mind you - I've tried multiple times to write a story for _Sherlock_, but it has never worked out. I hope it's different for this publication because I adore this story line that I've created over weeks and weeks. Please! Enjoy.

* * *

2. Stacy Gourd

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait," John yelled impatiently, his brows lowering and facial features twisting into an upset, confused look, "so we road all the way out to Suffolk, and you can't remember _where you remember the red poppies being_?" His hands went above his head in a dramatic pose before huffing at Sherlock's blatant ignorance of his rambling. Instead, Sherlock and John stood in the midst of a dirt road that led away from the main town; Sherlock had his fingers pressed against his lips and his hands pushed together. _Mind palace, right_. The sun had already begun to set, the pinks and oranges mixing with the cerulean blue. For spring, it was surprisingly warm outside still.

Rolling up his jacket sleeve, John checked the time and looked back at Sherlock, back at his watch, and then at his flatmate once more. A total of ten minutes they stood there before Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he started walking down the right fork in the road, "coming John?"

* * *

Laurel took down the now dry sheets and folded them carefully, making sure that they didn't touch the ground. The cool night breeze had started to roll in, the temperature already dropping a few degrees, and the nip in the air was stinging at her skin. She spent most of her afternoon under the large oak tree in her front yard reading _Crime and Punishment_, and cleaning the house. Her brother arrived home with groceries a few minutes before Laurel had started to take down the laundry; the smell of Chinese food wafted through the air, even now.

Balancing the full laundry basket on her hip, she trotted inside and welcomed the warmth.

"Did they dry completely?"

"Yes Mum, completely dry."

Colum shrugged, smirking to himself. He used the wooden chopsticks to pick up some of the noodles before looking up at his sister, the noodles hanging half way out of his mouth, "it's a wonder why you're still single big brother, you're just _so charming_." The venom was clear in her tone, but he chose to ignore it. He just smiled before sucking the noodles in loudly. She rolled her eyes before heaving the basket up her hip once again, "I'm going to make my bed, I'll be down in a few minutes - an hour at most." Colum shrugged and Laurel made her way upstairs with her loaded basket. It was more than ten minutes before Laurel made her way back downstairs, and by then Colum was already done with his food.

"You gonna eat?" He muffled a burp behind his hand, his eyes still looking up at his sister. She shook her head and shook a pack of cigarettes in her hand, "I'm going to go smoke a fag real quick, I'll be back in a jiffy." She tapped her pointer finger on top of the carton before heading to the back door and heading outside. Colum shrugged, still used to her bad habit, and leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach contentedly. As Column relaxed his eyes, he heard the doorbell ring and an impatient knock not a few moments afterwards. The clock hanging on the wall told Colum it was barely a quarter past eight, and he wondered who would be here so late. There were faint voices behind the door, and as Colum pushed his chair back (it squealed as it drew over the hardwood floor,) they stopped.

He scratched the back of his head, yawning as he opened the front door, "Hello?" His eyes fluttered open and he gawked at who was standing in front of him.

"S-Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?" Colum stared in amazement then his eyes narrowed in confusion and distrust, "what are you doing here?"

"Your sister, she's here I presume?" His voice was still as sharp as he remembered, his eyes no less calculating, but his demeanor had changed from self-important to just important; a good change? Colum couldn't decide, "the curled, long brown hair on your jacket's shoulder would suggest so," Sherlock stepped closer, sniffing lowly before stepping back, "as does the floral perfume radiating from you."

"Maybe it's my fiancée's." Colum defended, his eyes narrowing at his old colleague.

"You haven't shaved in weeks, the clothes you're wearing are worn and old, not clean by any standard of measure. Your socks have holes in them, you smell as if you haven't bathed in several days; you hygiene would suggest you not caring about how you are perceived at this time. Your left ring finger does bare a ring on it, but it isn't yours - grandfathers perhaps? No, it's your class ring; Cambridge's symbol is engraved on the front and the years printed on the side. Your house has been cleaned recently, but not by your doing as your hands are soft, hardly calloused, and the dried drool on your lower lip would suggest you've been sleeping recently; a maid? No, you have a teacher's salary, paying for your parent's estate upkeep so you wouldn't have the money to pay for one. A neighbor? Of course not, all your neighbors are recently retired and elderly, no one would volunteer to clean up after you. Fresh flowers in the vase down the hall, red poppies picked from your field out back - you hardly go back there because of your mother's gr-"

"I see you still do that deducing thing," Colum said tiredly, his body was rigid and stiff.

"I'm sorry about him," John cut in, holding out his hand towards Colum, "John Watson, friend and flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. You went to college together?" Colum nodded, taking a hold of John's hand and shaking it firmly before opening the door wider.

"At least one of you is civilized, it is pleasure to meet you John Watson, I'm Colum Strickland. How do you put up with him?"

"Pleasure's mine, and patience, a lot of it apparently."

Both Sherlock and John stepped inside, the warmth welcoming from the frigid cold breeze outside. Immediately, John unbuttoned and hung his jacket on the coat rack standing at attention just beside the door; Sherlock, however, just unbuttoned his coat and left it on, as well as his scarf. He looked around the house, inspecting the paintings hanging in the foyer before Colum coughed.

"I'll take you to the sitting room before I go make some strong cuppa, sound alright?"

John nodded his head, "That'd be lovely." John bumped his shoulder into Sherlock's, spurring him into action to move along.

"I see nothing has changed from the last time I visited except the decor," Sherlock's eyes dithered towards the large painting of what looked to be _Starry Night_, "your doing I assume?" Colum said nothing to the consulting detective, just led both him and John into the sitting room before leaving to the kitchen to set the water to boil in the kettle.

"So what have you been up to Sherlock?" Colum inquired from the kitchen, his eyes darting to the back door, "nothing too boring I hope."

Sherlock sat on the sofa gently, taking in his surroundings as he placed his hands against his lips. John simultaneously sat (it was more of a flop really,) on the opposite end of the sofa, his legs crossed over each other.

It became alarmingly clear that Sherlock wasn't going to answer his question, so John spoke up: "He's a consulting detective."

Colum looked around the corner of the sitting room, the hot kettle in hand before looking inquiringly at John, "and what on God's green earth is a consulting detective?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by Sherlock, "to put it fairly simple, just simple enough for your boring little mind, I am who the police come to when they're stuck. Who people come to when they need questions answered." Sherlock's fingers tapped together in a harmonizing sequence before he stood up, just as Colum was coming out with the tea.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"The smell of tobacco is wafting in through your back door, I assume that it isn't your _fiancée's_," John arched his brow at the _almost_ joke that came out of his friend's mouth, "and I can safely say it is your sister, the reason I came here." John looked over at Colum and noticed the man's chubby face tint red with anger, and the tray that held the expensive looking tea set was shaking.

"Yes of course, go see her then Sherlock." Colum breathed out as he made his way over to John and set down the tea-tray, "how do you take your tea John?" Sherlock stood still for a millisecond before sticking his hands into his pockets and making his way to the back door. As his hand touched the doorknob, he released his breath, pushed the door open, stepped outside, and promptly closed it behind him.

* * *

She could hear him outside the house before he even rang the doorbell, she dug the butt of her cigarette into the concrete slab she was sitting on before resting her elbows against her knees, listening closely.

"Why was it imperative that we come here this instant? It's bloody freezing out here." She knitted her eyebrows at the unrecognizable voice, _must be a friend? But Sherlock doesn't have friends._ She thought venomously before narrowing her eyes as she heard the deep baritone.

"She's never given such an obvious clue before, something's changed. In the picture she looks happy, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes; she absolutely detests people that take pictures while holding up the peace sign, let alone two, so why would she do something she hates? Usually the pictures are from the neck up, with something in the background. This time she had someone else take the picture, a local more likely since she was acting like a tourist that day; she hates when people touch her camera." She listened as he cleared his throat before ringing the doorbell and knocking on it as well. She rolled her eyes before mumbling, "impatient twat." She heard her brother answer the door, Sherlock's spot on deduction, and lastly the door closing as they entered the house.

Taking another cigarette out of the package, she stuck it in between her lips and lit it up with a match. The breeze easily blew out the match before she needed to shake it out so she dropped it on the opposite side of the concrete slab, breathing in the tobacco and easing her nerves. Goosebumps rose on her skin as the breeze turned almost icy. Another inhale of smoke and exhaling it through her nose. She heard the door behind her open, even the light that peered through the opening, but chose to ignore it; she wanted him to speak first.  
She could almost feel his warmth radiating from him he was so close. Another inhale, and another exhale.

_Just keep breathing Laurel. _Another inhale, and another exhale, this time through her mouth.

"Done playing our little game Duckie?"

She almost choked on the smoke that was in her throat but played it off as a light cough, "still calling me Duckie? I'm not a child anymore Sherlock."

"I can see that." Laurel looked up at Sherlock, confused at his words. He still looked the same as she remembered, maybe a little paler and maybe a tad more wiser; however, he still had his playful, black curls, and his defined features. She could hardly see with the dark of the night surrounding them, but those things were outlined from the light in the kitchen. Flicking off her ashes, she inhaled more from her cigarette and let it settle in her chest.

"Still smoking I see."

"Good observation Sherlock," she teased, smiling before exhaling, "I see you're not."

"Occasionally." She made an affirming noise in the back of her throat before finishing off her cigarette, standing up to brush off the legs and butt of her pants.

"Lets go inside, I want to meet your friend."

"Associate."

"Uh huh," she rebutted before opening the door and stepping inside, Sherlock following close behind.

* * *

"Oh, made tea did you brother? Smells awfully good, especially the Jasmine one." She smiled lightly, her eyes locking on the blonde haired fellow sitting on her sofa. He looked older, older than Sherlock, Colum, and herself. He sat-up straight, his legs uncrossed now, and a smile on his lips, "and you must be Sherlock's friend." She saw him go to get up, but quickly made a fuss. Telling him to sit down and rest, to warm up with the tea, and lastly just to tell her his name.

"John Watson, it's a pleasure to meet an old acquaintance of Sherlock's."

"Didn't know he had old acquaintances did you?" She laughed quietly before sitting down on the lounge, a tea cup nestled in her hands, "he probably never even mentioned me, or my brother, did he? So predictable." She turned her gaze on Sherlock, who had sat down again; her eyes locked on to his neck, and a soft smile presented itself.

"You sentimental twit, I would've thought you've thrown it away by now." John looked over at Sherlock, obviously confused. Sherlock made no noise and no words left his mouth to affirm what she just said. Instead, he lifted his tea to his mouth and quietly drank it.

"I'm sorry?" John asked, looking back at Laurel with a confused face. His eyes widened a quarter of an inch when he looked into her eyes; one eye was a vibrant green, the color he saw in the picture, and the other was an almost chocolate-brown.

"Oh nothing, I don't want poor Sherlock to get embarrassed." John shook off his amazement.

"Embarrassment is a-"

"It's human." Laurel cut Sherlock off, sipping her tea as well. John felt an awkward push against his shoulders, almost like he was intruding on something more... intimate.

"I believe you called me a 'machine' the last time we spoke, so embarrassment wouldn't effect me." Laurel blew the hot tea, smiling, but as Sherlock noted outside - it didn't reach her eyes. John shivered at the cold smile and sipped on his tea.

"Oh," she startled John effectively by the outburst, "I never introduced myself, I'm Laurel Strickland and it is a pleasure to meet a friend of Sherlock's."

"Daphne Kristina Strickland, born on the thirteenth of May, 1983. Meet John H. Watson, born on the-"

"You should make a biography of me Sherlock, since you think I'm incapable of introducing myself. I could just shove said biography in everyone's face and I'd never have to talk to anyone."

"Well!" John started, "it really is a pleasure to meet Sherlock's old college mates. What was he like in college?"

"Insufferable." Both Laurel and Colum said at the same time, laughing afterwards with a glaring Sherlock.

"I was insufferable? Says the woman who constantly flung herself at me, taking time out of her schedule to annoy me, and follow me around like a little duckling."

"Ah, that's where the nickname came from I assume?" John asked, thoroughly enjoying what he was learning about Sherlock.

"People used it to make fun of me, but it stuck. Two years later he started calling me that, and that's that."

It was quiet soon after that, the only sound being the frequent sipping of tea.

"I can't stand it," Sherlock finally broke the silence, "why?" He slammed the tea-cup down on the table, startling everyone in the room, "why stop now? You went dark for two years, and even before that I couldn't find you a single time!" He wasn't yelling, he wasn't calm; he was somewhere in the middle. Gently, she set the cup down on the table, never looking up at him.

"I don't know Sherlock, times change I suppose I-"

"Not you," he said almost quietly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, "you hate change. Why did you shave your head two years ago?" Her eyes locked on with his before she hissed out: "_what_ did you say?"

"Your hair used to be longer, but with your hair progression if you had only cut it short it'd still be longer than your shoulder blades. All signs of the blonde dye has been washed out of your hair, meaning only one thing: you shaved your head. But why?"

"I wanted chang-"

"No you didn't," Sherlock cut her off again, "you hate change, _absolutely loathe it even_. In fact, you've developed insomnia as well. The dark circles underneath your eyes aren't the only sign of that Daphne, the way your carry yourself does as well; you're slouching, not because that's the posture you usually have, but because you can hardly keep your head up, let alone your eyes. You haven't been able to concentrate on a single thing since you walked in through those doors. You're irritable, that's the most pressing sign. You've been up for, I'd say about, three days going on four."

"I've had insomnia since I've gotten out of college, long nights and long days make for it."

"No you haven't, your insomnia was sparked within the year, or so. You're not used to it, if it had been so chronic since college you'd be able to hide it well, or even treat it."

"It sparked up recently, what do you want me to do, apologize?"

"No, I want you to stop lying."

The air was thick in the room.  
Colum stood up and smiled awkwardly, "it's nearly nine and I have papers to grade - do you need a place to stay for the night?"

"Yes." "No." John and Sherlock answered, John looked at Sherlock with a purposeful glance, "we're not getting a cab or train this late at night Sherlock, we should just stay the night and go in the morning."

"It's the sensible thing to do," Laurel remarked, "I can freshen the linens, get something cooking if you're hungry -" John's stomach rumbled almost quietly, but Laurel heard it and smiled, "does a stew sound good?"

* * *

Laurel tied the plain, white apron around her waist as the pre-cooked roast marinated in dark gravy. The last time Sherlock saw her cook she had almost set her own hair on fire, but this time she moved around the kitchen efficiently, almost elegantly. John was seated on one of the two bar stools on the opposite side of the stationary breakfast bar, "are you sure you don't need any help? I feel horrid making you serve us food so late at night." She tied her hair up in a loose ponytail as she answered John: "I don't mind, it's quite relaxing really. Haven't cooked since India really and all that was, was some brown rice and curry." She laughed to herself as she pulled out some carrots and onions from the refrigerator, and a blade from the knife block.

"Can I ask how you met Sherlock? He isn't exactly the most sociable." She pulled the nearest carrot towards her, cutting off the very top, before proceeding to cut it into thin slices.

"A mutual friend introduced us. Sherlock was looking for a flatmate, and we sort of just..." John didn't finish his sentence, not sure what to say.

"Did he deduce you?"

"Excuse me?" At first John was taken back by what she had said, but brushed it off before nodding his head. "She can't see you nodding your head John." Sherlock remarked, earning _the_ look from John before he responded to her, "yes he did."

"I'm guessing he said something about you being a soldier." At the time, John was looking at Sherlock (who was standing against the doorway to the sitting room,) and did a double take.

"He told you?"

Laurel guffawed at John, looking back at him slightly as she cut the last of the carrots and pushing the cuttings into the pot, "Sherlock never tells me anything. We've hardly talked over the last seven years, how would I know?"

"It's simple John," Sherlock drawled, "she probably observed how you stood, hands behind your back and standing straight; soldier posture. Even when you sit you're at attention: your back straight, hands on your lap -"

"It was mostly the posture that screamed 'soldier', but you weren't on the front lines. You have a natural warmth, a caring attitude - so I'm guessing a doctor. Or at least that's what I would presume."

John looked back at Sherlock, "did you teach her that?" Sherlock scoffed, sitting down on the other bar stool in a flutter of coat and scarf (which he had taken off since it was becoming a tad too warm in the house,) and responded: "Daphne was, and probably still is, thick-headed as well as thick-skinned; most professors had a hard enough time trying to teach her, her normal courses. Why would I waste my time and breath?"

Laurel turned around, hands on her hips (knife still in hand), "you kind of pick it up after hanging around Sherlock too long. You sort of start seeing the world like he does, it's rather annoying; it doesn't go away either. But I always had a knack for looking at people and just... kind of knowing what they did, or what they are doing," she turned around again after a brief smile directed at John and continued cutting the onions, "I continued my knack by getting my degree in psychological and behavioral studies."

"How did you meet Sherlock?" John asked quietly, watching as she pushed the onions into the pot, covered it, and set it to simmer.

"I had to do a rather tedious and boring project with her brother, whom you met earlier, and back then Daphne was rather attached to. She was a constant annoyance until she actually showed she had some higher intellect."

John raised one eyebrow at his flatmate, "so you two bonded?"

"I wouldn't say that," Laurel started, "we simply found ourselves rather annoyed at everyone else than at each other." Sherlock finished. John would've thought it absolutely _adorable_ that they had finished and started each other's sentences if it weren't for the nasty glare she threw at Sherlock.

"So you found common ground."

"Stacy Gourd." They said at the same time, another nasty glare from Laurel and Sherlock looked disinterestedly towards John, "any other boring questions?"

"Sorry you think the memories we share are boring Sherlock." Laurel commented.

"Who's Stacy Gourd?" John interrupted, noticing Sherlock readying a rebuttal, "and why was she common ground?"

Laurel snorted, rolled her eyes, and turned back to the pot to stir it, "an annoying twenty-something year old who was held back too many times and thought herself to be the virginity taker; something she prided herself on. That annoying twat." She grumbled.

* * *

_It had been a long day already. She had professors riding her back on the examinations coming up, begging her to study or else be faced with the probability of getting kicked out. Laurel loved learning, education in a whole, but was absolutely terrible at exams. She heaved her backpack up on her shoulders, opening her eyes to see her favorite dark-haired, blue-eyed companion. Even though it was completely one-sided, she found Sherlock to be her only friend._

_"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, jumping on his back (which was a party trick of hers,) and smacked a kiss against his sharp cheekbone, "how has studying been?" He didn't even look at her, splutter out an outrageous cry (like he had done the first time,) but gave a noise of disgust in the back of his throat._

_"Can you_ not_ throw yourself at me for one day? It's an annoyance, especially when one is trying to concentrate on something."_

_She dropped down from his back, her arms unhooking from around his neck, and walked next to him, "and what would that be?"_

_"I seem to be the target of_ die hure*_."_

_She bristled, knowing who he was talking about, "Stacy Gourd?"_

_"Stacy Gourd."_

_She scoffed, blowing air out from her mouth as she sped up her pace to get in front of him and turned, walking backwards and maintaining eye contact with him, "black mail her." His eyes opened and looked at her with an almost questioning gaze, "with what?"_

_"You know Professor Abbey?"_

_"Not personally no," he drawled, looking at her if she was stupid, "I don't take literature 101." _

_"Stacy does. Do you really think she could get good grades without a little... something extra?" Sherlock raised a brow at her, an almost smirk on his lips, "and how would you know this was happening?"_

_"Easily," she noted, not missing a beat or blinking an eye, "she stays behind late for that particular course, and when she leaves she's always in an awful mood. Her hair is slightly messier than it was when she went in, mascara is smeared, lips irritated and red, and most of all she has the top grade even though she is failing almost every other course. Clothes are disorderly even though she takes the most time in the communal bathrooms to get ready. She'd never be seen like that unless she knew no one was going to see her; or hope no one did. She obviously is doing _some sort_ of extracurricular activity."_

_Sherlock hummed deeply before smirking, "you're not as useless as you seem."_

* * *

"And those were the words that sealed the deal." Laurel quietly said as she served them both stew.

"So Sherlock black mailed her into not trying anything?" John asked, taking a sip of the stew; it was delicious and he took spoonful after spoonful.

"Of course, it was either that or scaring her off by deducing it - which I had never met the woman in my life and personally never wanted to." Sherlock didn't touch the food, just stared at the bowl of steaming stew.

"So you didn't notice it first?" Another spoonful of the stew, chewing on the soft meat and carrots.

"Like I said, I never met her, but I did deduce the amount of men she had slept with was over thirty. I knew things about her family: her parent's divorce, her brother's homosexuality, etc. I knew she was sleeping with a professor, yet it was interesting to see someone else make the same deduction." John choked on the stew, "oh." Was all he said as he continued on eating.

"I knew Daphne would be useful after that, and she proved to be several times over."

"Oh stop you," Laurel playfully teased, "all these compliments." She turned the stove off and hung the apron back up, "I have to go make up the beds, I'll collect you two in a moment."

* * *

In the morning, John woke up to an unfamiliar smell hanging in the air. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before rolling over and looking out open window. He sat up in bed, stretching his arms above his head as he read the clock. _8:15 _He shuffled off the bed, making it afterwards and slipped the clothes he was wearing yesterday back on (folding the pajamas he borrowed and put it on the bed as well) and made his way downstairs. He wasn't surprised to see Sherlock already up as well, wasn't even surprised to see the scent he smelt was breakfast, but was surprised to see Sherlock eating it and sipping on a piping hot cup of coffee.

"Good morning John, I hope you slept well?" John looked over to see Laurel standing behind the breakfast bar once again, a plate of steaming eggs and bacon in her hand, and in the other a cup of tea, "I wasn't sure if you liked coffee so I didn't make you a cup, but I can get one if you prefer." John shook his head, walking over, "this is great, thank you Laurel."

"It wasn't a big deal-" John's fingers slid over hers when he went to take the plate away and he watched as she jerked her hand back, quickly handed him the cup of tea as well, "uh, please enjoy." She took the pack of cigarettes off the counter and promptly went outside.

"What do you think that was?" John asked Sherlock, who stopped drinking his coffee, "I didn't mean to touch her, does she have mysophobia*?" John took a piece of bacon and bit off a piece.

"No. She doesn't." Sherlock eyed the backdoor wearily before standing up and going outside himself.

Once outside, Sherlock saw that Laurel wasn't in the spot she was in last night. He stepped off the slab, sticking his hands into his pant pockets, and looked around the yard. His eyes directed him to the field of red poppies, which were in early bloom. He could faintly see her figure at the edge of them and walked over.

"I didn't mean to." She said quickly once he reached her. His eyes locked on her shaking hand, the hand that was holding the cigarette in between two long fingers. He stood quietly next to her, the only thing speaking was the wind as it blew. The poppies swayed in the breeze.

"This is where she's buried isn't it?"

"Per her request." Laurel replied sadly, putting the cigarette to her lips and taking a large drag. She felt him tug on her shirt sleeve and looked down at his hand, which was pointing to the package in her hand. She handed them to him, watched as he took one out fluidly (like he had done it a million times before,) and placed it between his lips. She exhaled again, put it back between her lips before offering him the lighter. Instead, he stepped in front of her and lowered his head down to her level; the ends of their cigarettes pushed together, and in turn lit his cigarette. He shivered as the nicotine swept over him, _sweet, sweet release._

"Occasionally." She repeated his words from last night as she released the smoke through her nose, "special occasions." He corrected. They stood there, without saying a word until they both were finished smoking and went back inside.

* * *

"Leaving so soon," Laurel joked as she handed John his coat, "you've only just arrived." She grabbed Sherlock's coat as well, handing it to the consulting detective. His hands grabbed the navy scarf before her fingers could brush over the material.

"Our game is over, I thought I'd come. Finally find you." He tied his scarf around his neck, not looking up at her. She felt her heart swell with disappointment, but knew it was for the best; she couldn't keep it up forever. John smiled warmly and went to stick his hand out, but after earlier's incident decided against it, and instead nodded his head towards her.

"It was lovely meeting you Laurel, I hope we can see you in the future." She nodded back, softly smiling. If John didn't know better he'd say it was sad. Sherlock patted his hands over his coat, looked confused, and pulled out an unfamiliar phone, "oh?" Laurel exclaimed, "that's mine! How did it..."

"Just take it." Sherlock shoved it towards her, and she took it gracefully, "thanks." She muttered under her breath, looking up at him, but he never looked at her. John unlocked the door and opened it, letting in a large gust of wind.

"Well we should get going, right Sherlock?"

"Of course, Lestrade is probably floundering right now." John was the first the exit the house, but not without one more large smile and another goodbye. Sherlock stood there for a moment before nodding at her, going to the barrier of the door, and stopped once again.

"Sherlock?" John called out seeing as he was already down the steps of the porch and waiting eagerly for his flatmate. Laurel watched as Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a hard gaze sent to her.

"You should move to London," he said casually, "it'd make it less boring." With that, Sherlock closed the door and joined John. Laurel clutched her phone to her chest, confused and standing in amazement.

Sherlock was enigmatic, always had been.

Her phone buzzed almost knowingly, and she almost dropped it like a wet bar of soap. She looked at the screen.

**Unknown**

It had been a text message, and she opened it curiously.

_**I took the liberty of adding mine and John's number.** -**SH**_

She smiled, laughed to herself before saying under her breath: "twat."

*** Die Hure: the whore / _German_  
* mysophobia: the pathological fear of contamination and germs.**

**Thank you for the kind reviews, alerts, and favorites! I swear the story will be picking up, as well as getting into the actual plot line of BBC's Sherlock. I'll be starting in 1x02 most likely however, it is subject to change. You'll steadily learn more about Laurel (and in turn, Colum,) in later chapters as well so don't worry if you're confused about what happened in this chapter! All will be explained haha**

**Anyway! Please review and I'll update ASAP. **


	3. 3

**Hide and Seek**

**Author's Note**: This is my first publication for the _Sherlock_ category, not attempt mind you - I've tried multiple times to write a story for _Sherlock_, but it has never worked out. I hope it's different for this publication because I adore this story line that I've created over weeks and weeks. Please! Enjoy.

* * *

3. Marinating Lungs

* * *

John watched his flatmate pace back and forth from the sofa to his chair. John had wondered if he kept going if he'd burn himself a whole in the hardwood flooring. He lifted up the newspaper and grumbled, "here's hoping."

"What was that John?"

Sherlock had a knack of doing that: hearing things that John didn't want him to hear and to ignore everything John thought was important. Sometimes John wondered if he simply heard everything he said, even if it was under his breath, and chose to ignore it unless he knew it would embarrass John. 'Nothing' John mumbled, his eyebrows cross, his fingers playing with the back of the newspaper.

"Bored!" Sherlock yelled after twenty minutes of pacing, just as John was nearing the end of the paper, "bored!" He yelled again, flopping down on the sofa, getting into his signature pose, "no murders! No robberies! No kidnappings! Boring, boring, boring!" John looked up at him, irritation clear on his face before grabbing his phone and typing in a message.

_**He's in one of his moods again**_**. -JW**

He set it down quietly, not missing a beat as he folded his newspaper back up and took a sip of his tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier that morning. His phone pinged, and he silently berated himself for not turning the sound off. Sherlock looked up, "who are you messaging so early in the morning?" John didn't reply as he picked up his phone, holding in a chuckle as he read the message.

_**Tell him to stuff it, always worked when we were in uni. -**_**LS**

"It's not Sarah, you don't have that lovesick puppy look you usually get when she messages you, or vice versa. Couldn't be Lestrade, you never smile when you get a message from him - you usually respond with a sigh. Can't be my brother," Sherlock spat the world out, "he never messages you, or calls you. Daphne. You're messaging Daphne at," Sherlock peered at the clock, "a quarter past eight in the morning. I'm surprised she's even up."

"Yes, I'm messaging Laurel," John admitted but not with out an embarrassed blush, "she's the only one that will listen to my rants."

"About me?" Sherlock stated even though it sounded like a question.

"Of course, what else would I be ranting about?" Sherlock brought his fingers up to his lips and closed his eyes, going still.

_**I mentioned you and that shut him right up**_**. -JW**

When he finished his tea, he poured himself a new cup before going into the kitchen and making some toast. Toast had always filled him up in the morning especially when he sprinkled some cinnamon sugar on the buttered toast. Leaning against the counter, he sipped his tea and nibbled on his toast. His phone pinged again.

_**I have that effect on him. Usually. **_**-LS**

_**You should've mentioned that earlier! **_**-JW**

John laughed quietly to himself before opening the refrigerator to get the milk and found himself repulsed by the stench radiating from it. After pushing around a few items he found himself yelling at the top of his lungs: "Sherlock! Why are there a pair of lungs marinating in the fridge?!"

* * *

Laurel chuckled at John's messages, feeling more like a mother than a friend to him at this point. They rarely talked about themselves because John was too busy ranting about Sherlock and talking about him. If Laurel didn't know any better she would've guessed that they were an item. She tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and pushed her hair back from her forehead.

"Do you want something to eat? I can run into town and pick something up." Colum asked from the door way of the sitting room. Laurel was now nursing a steaming mug of coffee, the dark bags under her eyes more noticeable in the natural sun-light, and her fingers worked on her cuticles, making them bleed.

"You've gained weight."

"Are we going to play this game?" Colum asked, exasperated before leaning against the frame, "well you've lost weight."

"I wasn't trying to be mean, just an observation from eating out too much." Colum shrugged at her words before turning on his heel to head out the door, "want something or not?"

"I can make something." Laurel stood up, uneasy on her own feet as she shuffled towards the kitchen, "like what?" Colum started, following her into the kitchen.

"I don't know something."

Laurel opened the refrigerator and peered inside.

* * *

John slammed the refrigerator doors shut with a mighty force, enough the shake the condiments on it.

"It was an experiment John!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding the tray of his marinating lungs in front of him, "I wanted to see-"

"No, no! I don't care, just get them out of the fridge!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically over his head, "I don't want to see body parts when I go to get the milk! Or smell it, for God's sake Sherlock!" John watched as Sherlock went to put them in the microwave, "no! Not there either you nit!"

* * *

Colum popped open the microwave, shoving the television dinner inside of it, and set it on five minutes.

"Always eating healthy I see," Laurel joked as she stabbed at her salad with cut apple slices, "I'm glad to see that my brother is going to die from a clogged artery instead of a bullet wound." Colum ignored her as he stared at his lunch go around and around in the microwave, "or from radiation." Laurel mumbled under her breath as she stuffed more lettuce into her mouth.

"Oh stuff it will you?" He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, tapping his foot impatiently. When the microwave finally beeped, sounding that it was done with its job, Colum opened the door and sat beside Laurel at the breakfast bar. Since it was just the two of them in the large house it seemed almost silly to even have a dinning room.

"Remember when Mum got this silly thing installed?" Colum started, picking at the floppy steak and almost plastic looking vegetables, "she was always excited to make pancakes on the weekends." Laurel was quiet as she polished off the rest of her salad and dumped the plate in the sink. Her phone buzzed on the marble counter top.

_**He had lungs in the fridge. **_**-JW**

Laurel quirked a brow, but wasn't necessarily surprised. She vaguely remembered the time he stuffed a dozen live rodents into her dorm room and filled it with a nauseating smell that definitely was supposed to recreate the scent of burning flesh. _"I needed to see how the rats would react to the smell - it's an experiment Duckie." "In **my** dorm room though?" "Well I obviously wouldn't do it in my own."_

_**He's a prat, a brilliant prat. **_**-LS**

The phone vibrated in her hand before she could even set it down. When she looked at the screen she immediately froze. **New message. From: _Sherlock_****_ Holmes_**. The last few weeks John had sent her some messages, to get better acquainted ("He's flirting, you nut," Colum would say) however, Sherlock had not once messaged her. Or called. She took a deep breath and opened the message.

_**You really should. **_**-SH**

She was confused, she should what? She quickly typed out her response: _**Should what?**_** -LS**

She fingered the phone, flipping it around between her fingers and running her fingers over the silk like texture.

"You should just move out there already. You spend more time looking at that phone than anything else." Colum said as he stabbed some of his steak and putting it into his mouth, "it's practically like you're already living with them."

"Why would I want to live with Sherlock Holmes?" Laurel said more to herself than her brother, "that egotistical, arrogant, self-involved, self-important -" Her phone went off and she quickly looked at the new message.

_**Come to London. I'm bored. **_**-SH**

"It 'im ain't it?" Colum asked with a mouth full of food before swallowing and looking at his sister's face, "what ever happened between the two of you?" Laurel snapped her head up and with a cold glance, picked up her cigarettes and went outside.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to 221b, not really shocked by what she saw. John was in his chair, a proper angry pout on his face as he sipped on a cup of tea and Sherlock sitting in the kitchen with a pan that contained lungs and what looked to be gravy. She propped the door open with her door as she carried in a tray of biscuits and jam.

"Have another domestic did you?" She teased as John straightened up, hearing the door open.

"No," John answered, exasperated, "I found a pair of fresh lungs in gravy in the fridge though." Mrs. Hudson gave a not-too surprised gasp before crying out a sharp: '_Sherlock!_' Sherlock didn't bother to look up from the pan as he cut at them with a sharp scalpel. Mrs. Hudson put the tray down on the coffee table, looking back at Sherlock before making another surprised noise.

"Oh! Sherlock I fixed up one of the upstairs room, you said you had an _associate _that would rent it? Can I have his name?" When the word 'associate' left her mouth, she looked almost worriedly towards John who threw his arms up again yelling '_We aren't a couple Mrs. Hudson!_'. Sherlock straightened himself up, tugging at his shirt slightly before answering.

"Her name. Daphne Strickland, I believe she'll be in touch by the end of the week."

And she was.


	4. 4

**Hide and Seek**

**Author's Note**: This is my first publication for the _Sherlock_ category, not attempt mind you - I've tried multiple times to write a story for _Sherlock_, but it has never worked out. I hope it's different for this publication because I adore this story line that I've created over weeks and weeks. Please! Enjoy.

* * *

4. 221b

* * *

_Was she really doing this_.

She bit the inside of her cheek, chewing on the tissue until a familiar cooper-y taste filled her mouth. She was having second thoughts, she always had second thoughts when it came to Sherlock. At first, she was sure that she wanted to move out to London (John had name dropped Mrs. Hudson multiple times, enough for her to get the hint,) and she was sure Sherlock wanted it too. But then, she wasn't too sure. Laurel had been in the same predicament with the strange detective many years ago, so sure he wanted something and in the end he didn't; she could never read him. He was a puzzle, a riddle that plagued her mind, but it was only ever him.

She could tell you when someone was lying by the twitch in their cheek, or the lack of eye contact, even the way they breathed but not Sherlock. She could tell John Watson was a loyal man by the way he stood beside Sherlock, his head raised and eyes forward. She could tell that John Watson lived a life of normalcy (as normal as one could get whilst being around Sherlock,) as he fell on a schedule and a routine and not spontaneity. She could tell you what the lines on his forehead meant, or the clench in his fists, or even the twitch in his nose; she could tell you all that from a few hours with the man. She could never read Sherlock like that. Never.

She stared up at the building in front of her, two-two-one-b hanging prettily just above the knocker. _Too late to second guess now_, she thought. She stood on the sidewalk with a few bags slung over her shoulder before taking the knocker and knocking on the door.

It opened rather unceremoniously with the door hitting the wall behind it. An older woman answered it, looking quite concerned before her eyes brightened, "Daphne wasn't it?" Laurel cracked the tiniest of smiles, "Laurel if you please," she almost didn't have the heart to tell the woman that just by the state of her, "only my mother called me Daphne."

"Nonsense, it's your given name," She presumed it was Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door wider, "well come in, you'll catch a cold if you don't." She inclined her head in thanks before moving inside, and the door shut heavily behind her.

* * *

Sherlock plucked the strings of his violin, tuning it before running the bow across them. Perfection, like always. He closed his eyes and started playing Beethoven Symphony No. 3, well just the first ten minutes of it before suddenly stopping.

John sat in his chair, typing on his laptop about their latest case, and stopped when Sherlock spoke: "I wonder how long she's going to stand outside."

"What?" John saved his current writing, closing his laptop and setting it aside, "I'm sorry?" he tried again when Sherlock didn't speak.

"Daphne has stood outside in the seven degree* weather for almost nine minutes now." John stood up immediately and went to the door, but Sherlock stopped him, "I wouldn't worry about her. She'll come in when she's ready, no need to rush her." He simply said before continuing with Beethoven's symphony.

* * *

"I've never met one of Sherlock's friends before, from his uni days. Seems so quiet about those years," Mrs. Hudson led Laurel up the first flight of stairs, pointing at the door that sat there, "this is John and Sherlock's flat," Laurel nodded knowingly. Of course Sherlock would pick the room nearest (next nearest,) to the door and had a safe landing height from the window, well relatively safe. "Come along then, I'll show you to your flat now." After two flight of stairs (pointing out that the flat on the third landing was where John slept,) Mrs. Hudson stopped at the door and pulled out her keys, "this flat has always been a fixer upper, always needing repairs and such. You let me know if you need anything, alright dear? Not your housekeeper though." The last few words seemed to be more for her sake than Laurel's, but she nodded nonetheless. _  
_

"And of course John and Sherlock are downstairs, just a few seconds away if anything were to come up," Mrs. Hudson turned the key, opening the door and revealing a relatively clean flat, "I cleaned it before you came, everything should be dusted and wiped down. I had some extra appliances lying around, plugged them in and set them up - thought you could use some things." She stepped into the flat and Laurel followed close behind, "the previous renters left their sofa and lounge, unfortunately I couldn't turn up a bed for the night." She was worried.

"It's fine Mrs. Hudson, I can sleep on the sofa if nothing else," she smiled at the kind woman, "you don't need to worry yourself over me. You hardly know me."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on her cheek, smiling to herself rather sadly, "I apologize, but it's just something ... I don't know." She waved it off, adding on: "how silly of me. I'm going to go fetch some blankets for you tonight." Laurel nodded, thanking her again before watching her leave and shut the door behind her. Laurel turned on her heel to face the emptiness of her room.

It reminded her a lot of the apartment she rented in Hong-Kong, small and compact. Homey. She loved it already. She slid her bags off her shoulder next to the sofa before flopping down on it, her long legs hanging off the ends as she closed her eyes.

* * *

John knocked on the door and heard nothing. He knocked again, and again heard nothing. Curiously, John pressed his ear to the door.

"She's sleeping."

John jumped, spinning around and nearly screaming: "Jesus Christ Sherlock!"

"Not for long though, I suspect she has night terrors."

"And how did you come up with that one?" John asked, half-curious and half annoyed.

"She's already told us she suffers from insomnia, she says since college, but obviously she doesn't know how to handle it. The bags and dark circles under her eyes are evidence of that; she doesn't take any medication, obviously. Did you see her hands when we were taking about it a few weeks ago?" John shook his head, he was lucky if he could remember what he had for breakfast a few weeks ago, "she was clutching them around her mug; white knuckling it in fact. She was scared, terrified of talking about it. She doesn't want any one to know, she didn't want to look weak. She's always been like that."

"Oh, is this my free deducing for the week?"

John and Sherlock turned to face Laurel, who looked a mess; her hair (which looked like it was up in a bun,) was knotted and wild, sweat shined on her forehead, her eyes blood-shot, and the dark circles looking even darker.

"You didn't deny it." Sherlock stated, not missing a beat as he pushed his hands into his pockets. John avoided her gaze, only looking at his flatmate with a glare.

"I didn't say it was right either."

"I'm hardly ever wrong."

"And sometimes you're hardly ever right."

John noticed Sherlock's eyebrow twitch ever so slightly, "So!" John exclaimed, "are you hungry?"

* * *

"For some reason I thought you were going to take me out." Laurel stated as she spun her Chinese noodles around with her chopsticks, it didn't look too appetizing.

"John was being courteous, probably figured that you didn't want to go out looking like that." Sherlock said from the kitchen, sliding a petri dish underneath the microscope lens. Laurel's mouth twitched, but ignored him: "how do you put up with him?"

"The same way you put up with me for several years Daphne."

"I wasn't asking you." She snapped, looking back at him with a venomous gaze.

"You two fight an awful lot." John said quietly, looking between the two tall, lean figures hunched over in their seats. Laurel sighed, apologizing for the both of them, "it wasn't always like this. I just come to realize how spectacularly annoying he is; some of us mature while away from friends, and others," her gaze found it's way back to Sherlock, "stay the same."

"Where did you go?" John asked, picking at his rice and pork, "I mean, when you and Sherlock played you're, uh, game." Laurel held back a snort as she stopped spinning her noodles, "even Sherlock doesn't know half of them."

"At first, she traveled to Germany. Not too far away as most people start when they're traveling. She moved to France after that, then to Norway - "

"You knew I was in Norway? That's the first I've heard about it. You didn't even _try_ to find me."

"I was on a case."

"For six months?" She cast a non-believing look in his general direction, "and I'm the bloody Queen of England." Sherlock didn't miss a beat as he reached next to him for another slide, pushing it under, and replying: "it was a complicated case," Laurel wanted to roll her eyes, "don't roll your eyes you're not a child." She huffed as she stopped spinning her noodles and pushed them away from her before standing up.

"I really don't know why I moved here," she mumbled to herself before turning to look at John with a sweet smile, "I'm going to head to bed, thank you for dinner and your company." When she went to the door, John's voice stopped her. "You're not going to stay for tea?" She sighed, his voice was sad and she didn't dare turn around to see what his face looked like. So, instead she opted to throw a dashing smile over her shoulder before walking out of the flat, "not tonight John, I'll take a rain check." And the door slowly shut behind her.

* * *

By the time she made her way back to her flat, she could hear John reprimanding Sherlock. _"You have no manners!" _She couldn't help but chuckle to herself, she hadn't heard anyone try to scold Sherlock before; it was amusing. She could tell immediately that Mrs. Hudson had been in her flat by the amount of blankets toppled on the sofa, and the three pillows carefully placed on the cushions. It was nearing ten o'clock before Laurel huddled under the blankets and fell asleep on the comfortable, yet lumpy sofa.

_It was dark, almost overwhelmingly so. She blinked quickly, trying to grasp her surroundings but it was too blurry and too dark; she could barely see the other side of the cement wall in front of her. She writhed under her bindings, the cold metal cutting into her wrists and pulling her back. Sweat started to bead from her forehead and neck, running down her back and cheeks - no, those were tears she felt dripping from her jaw. She could hear the faint sound of water dripping, echoing off the barren walls and every time she heard the distant splash: she shuttered.  
__It was too cold, her appendages were shaking and she could feel goosebumps start to appear on her skin. This was a dream, she couldn't be back here. It was all a dream. She squeezed her eyes together, biting down on her tongue only to find that she was gagged and sobbed grossly; it was just a dream. The mantra she repeated as she heard the squeaking of wheels coming from outside her room. She squeezed her eyes tighter, biting down on her gag as the squeaking stopped. It's just a dream, she repeated. She was shaking, the tears rolled freely down her face and she could feel the vomit rising in her throat. It was just a dream, she repeated once more as the door opened, blinding her._

_It's just a dream, she repeated as she heard someone come in. Just a dream she said again as she felt fists collide with her face. It's all just a very, very bad dream._

She bolted upwards, a heated scream almost ripping from her throat as she slapped a hand over her mouth and gagged. She ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her before vomiting her dinner and lunch into the toilet. _It was all just a nightmare_. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, shaking as she did so. The sweat and tears stuck to her face, her head spun and she could feel her stomach twist. _It was all just a very bad dream._

* * *

Seven o'clock rolled around entirely too soon for John, but he got up nonetheless and made his way to the kitchen. He continued with his schedule, putting the kettle on the stove for the water to boil before dragging his tired feet into the bathroom to quietly brush his teeth and wash his face. When the kettle was done boiling, he made himself a cup of morning tea before sitting down tiredly in his chair. Sherlock had been up all night, not really a surprise, conducting his experiments and playing the violin (at three in the bloody morning). "Morning." John mumbled into his cup, and not-so-surprisingly didn't get a reply back. John vaguely heard the knock at the door (he wanted to groan so badly,) and got up to answer it.

"I didn't know you were the boxer type John," If John wasn't up already, he was now as he hastily closed his robe and tied it off; he flushed in embarrassment before looking at Laurel's smiling face, "I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, but I was wondering if I could get some directions." John's weight passed between his left and right foot before smiling tiredly, "I can escort you, I'd be faster than trying to tell you where you wanted to go."

"Would you?" She clasped her hands together, tilting her head, and smiling, "that'd be wonderful John!" He nodded, opening the door wider so she could step in. "Of course," he replied softly, "I just need to get changed and we can hea-" He stopped short as Laurel shrugged off her coat and felt his breath get stuck in his throat. When she took off her black petticoat jacket, he saw that she was wearing a short, backless dress that had a tucked skirt*; he could see she was wearing a stocking belt, the straps connecting to her stockings showed off rather nicely. John, as startled as he was, finished his sentence quickly: "we can head off. Be back in a jiffy."  
Laurel watched him as he left the flat to go upstairs to his room.

"He's embarrassed," Laurel turned on her heel to look at Sherlock who was looking at her as well, "he wasn't expecting you to dress like that. Out. You look ridiculous." She could feel her cheeks turn pink and she bit the inside of her cheek, "you should go change. You'll draw far too much attention going out dressed like that, you look like you're going clubbing." She knew he meant no offense by it, but she could feel the embarrassment bubble in her stomach.

"Fine." She finally spat out before stomping out of the flat and up to hers. Ten minutes later she heard knocking at her door. She knew it was John since both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock would just gladly invite themselves in. When she answered the door she was dressed in light-blue acid washed skinny jeans which were tucked nicely into some sensible boots and a long, floral top; it was normal.

"You changed." Was the first thing he said. She just smiled and grabbed her purse, which was sitting on the counter, "I thought I'd save that dress for when I go out next, you know for drinks or something."

"Sherlock say something?" She guffawed sarcastically and snorted, "why would I change just because he said something?" She shut the door behind her before taking in John's appearance. He slicked back his hair, just like he did normally, but he had a fresh shave and was wearing a off-white jumper that fit him handsomely; he was wearing a soft after-shave as well. She smiled, "now, I need to know where the grocer is and several other places; are you ready chauffeur?" John hooked his arm with hers, smiling lightly, "of course."

* * *

"There's been a break-in John." Laurel almost choked on her water as the voice repeated itself from behind her, "a break-in at the bank, exciting isn't it?" Laurel turned in her chair, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and saw none other than Sherlock himself, standing in the middle of the restaurant with a giddy smile on his face before it was followed by a frown.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock, sit down." John hissed before pointing to the empty chair next to both him and Laurel. The two of them decided since it was lunch time and John had shown Laurel most of the places that she needed to know that he'd treat them to lunch, and now two turned into three as Sherlock quietly slumped into the chair, "now what were you saying?" Laurel picked up her water once again as Sherlock explained the case. She vaguely listened to him, too upset with him until he turned to her, "I see you changed." The water almost went out her nose as the surprise forced the water to come out of her mouth and project onto the table and her plate; many people turned their heads towards her in disgust. She sneered at him, "not because of anything. My feet were already hurting."

"Ah, well you could have simply changed your shoes and not your entire outfit Daphne; it's quite simple."

"It was cold out, I put on pants."

"You're never bothered by the cold, I've seen you dance in the rain - you aren't affected by it."

"Well now I am." Laurel snapped, her head swimming as she felt nauseated.

"Sherlock." John groaned, looking at his flat-mate with narrow eyes. Sherlock shrugged and stood up, flipping up his coat collar, and turned: "Now are you two coming or not?"

* * *

**Author's Note: Quick, quick, quick author's note here! The first asterisk is because all temperature will be told in Celsius, so seven degrees Celsius is around forty-four degrees Fahrenheit; I will always put conversions at the end of each chapter for both temperature and money (if anything is mentioned in euros or pounds). Second asterisk is for the dress, which I probably didn't explain very well (the dress will make a come-back haha,) you can see what dress I'm talking about if you search: Nuclear romance backless dress (it should be the first one that pops up,) if you're interested!**

**So down to business: the next chapter _will _start into the plot of Season 1, Episode 2: Blind Banker. Be prepared ladies and gents! And thank you, as always, for the reviews/alerts/favorites/follows - it really means the world to me! Love you all and I'll see you in the next chapter!**


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